


puzzle box

by lilytheas



Category: Fire Emblem: Fuukasetsugetsu | Fire Emblem: Three Houses
Genre: Blow Jobs, Friends to Lovers, M/M, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, Semi-Public Sex, but also a little agonizing over how much war sucks bc linhardt
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-11-18
Updated: 2019-11-18
Packaged: 2021-02-08 09:11:09
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,218
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21473572
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lilytheas/pseuds/lilytheas
Summary: “Caspar,” he repeats, sitting up to lean back onto his elbows. "Would you mind terribly if I tried sucking you off right now?”
Relationships: Caspar von Bergliez/Linhardt von Hevring
Comments: 37
Kudos: 323





	puzzle box

**Author's Note:**

> wowowow this is my first attempt to write anything this porny i feel like a baby lmao i can't believe this is over 7000 words tbh rip my dissertation
> 
> it's mostly just lin thinking his thoughts and then sucking his friend's dick in public, like u do,

Some things are the same with them after the start of the war, though some things are undeniably different. They spend their time together as always, their decidedly unmonastic monastery life having fallen into an easy pattern years ago. Linhardt following Caspar to the training grounds for a quick nap on the sidelines, Caspar grabbing a plate for Linhardt from the dining hall when he notices he’s been absent. Linhardt silently making room in his bed during the more violent thunderstorms, diplomatically agreeing to his friend’s equivocations about his first floor room being better shielded than Caspar’s to the loud hammering of rain on the roof. Friends coming to Caspar whenever they need Linhardt roused for something, though the lectures and training sessions have been traded for war councils and horrific scraps with bandits, with demonic beasts, and worst of all, with familiar faces and old school friends. 

Most things are the same, but there’s a weight to them, as the war drags on. Every day the chances that they might die neither rise nor fall, at least in any meaningful kind of way. Instead they remain the same, every day just as high as the one before, like a lingering pulse over everything they do. That alone is exhausting, for Linhardt in particular. Caspar can run into battle on any given day, prepared to make destiny bow to his will. Or at the very least, to his fists. But for Linhardt it’s always been different. Every day he gets closer to retreating, happy to accept his winnings in the lottery of life and death as more than sufficient and call it a day. He isn’t a fool, after all. He knows that the laws of probability will have to catch up to him eventually, as laws tend to do. And he has never been much of a gambler. 

So there is a new weight to things, as he supposes must be inevitable. It’s hard not to feel it, when every careless shoulder brush might be the last--every rainstorm, every pile of sweet buns piled haphazardly onto a dining hall plate. Every time he chides Caspar for drinking too fast and then snorting his drink out of his nose in a fit of laughter--every faint blush on his friend’s face when he pulls a piece of dandelion fluff out of his robin's egg blue hair. Every soft moment, every loud disturbance; every comfortable habit and every shocking anomaly. A melancholy settles over Linhardt when he thinks that each one could truly be the last--how bleak and insignificant if it should end here, as though none of it had ever happened. 

He yawns and stretches his arms over his head, shifting over onto his side on the makeshift bedroll he's set up on the edge of the training grounds. A few feet away, Caspar is still wailing away on a training dummy like it owes him money, but Linhardt can tell that he's started to wind down. His characteristic battle cries have given way to something softer, something rounder and more human, his quieter pants of exertion and concentration. He's shed the heavy armor he's started to favor since the start of the war, stripping down to a plain undershirt tucked sloppily into his breeches. He fills both out more than he did in his school days, an achievement he likes to draw attention to as often and as loudly as he can. Linhardt watches as the muscles in his arms flex and unflex against every maneuver, every punch, every block against an imaginary assailant. In all his years of knowing him Caspar has never been one for book learning, but in muscle memory and performance he has always excelled, coming closer to something resembling grace than Linhardt has ever known him to. 

He's been at it for long enough that the sweat has soaked through parts of his shirt, clinging lovingly to his chest with a dedication Linhardt finds simply fascinating. The material is pulled taut against Caspar’s broad shoulders, his firm biceps and the swell of his pecs, accentuating the narrowness of his waist where it drapes more loosely across his abdomen. Linhardt realizes that he’s staring, and notices with some chagrin that he finds it difficult to stop. Distantly, he wonders what it would be like to peel that fabric away and to feel the tacky skin underneath. Would it feel warm from his exertion, or cool from his sweating? Suddenly, urgently, he simply has to know. 

He would be lying if he said the war was the only thing that changed between them recently. 

Lately there's been an electricity, a lingering that's gone unnamed for longer than he’s been aware of its existence. If he were talking about other people, he might even describe it as a tension. But that word doesn’t quite describe them--they’ve never fought in their almost twenty years of friendship, after all. It’s more like a low thrumming, a soft buzz between them threatening a suggestion of something else. Words that pass unspoken, that Linhardt can sometimes think he can see Caspar feeling out before letting them dissipate like a cloud of smoke that might have taken shape if not for a small gust of wind. 

Caspar catches him staring, and grins down at him, so Linhardt has no choice but to smile back. He feels their eye contact stretch out for longer than he's sure it's supposed to. Rather than comment, though, Caspar continues, undeterred. Linhardt flops onto his back, unsure of the satisfactoriness of this outcome. 

He isn't sure if Caspar is even aware of this new dimension of their friendship, which is a common enough feeling. The number of things Caspar does without realizing usually outnumber the things he does intentionally by at least two or three times on any given day. But he also isn't sure which thought is more distressing: whether everything he's been doing has been an accident, or worse--that it could possibly have been on purpose. Every prolonged gaze, every casual crowding of space. Every time Caspar goes out of his way just to be close to him, even when Linhardt is just silent or sleeping. 

Often, Linhardt thinks that it must be a part of him unconsciously chasing a sense of familiarity and constancy in the darkness of the war. How like him it would be to zero in like a dowsing device on the warmth and comfort of established companionship and the ease of being known without effort, down to the most mundane triviality. Other times, Caspar makes eye contact with him at the exact moment he decides to do something unbelievably maddening, like licking a speck of cream from his dessert off his lip or lifting the edge of his shirt to wipe the sweat off his brow, baring tight, well-defined abs and the lightest ghost of a blue trail of hair leading down under the waist of his trousers. At times like those, Linhardt has difficulty telling if Caspar is trying to provoke him, or kill him, or neither. Usually he will follow it up with something so mindnumbingly Caspar (an inappropriately loud burst of laughter or a mistaken attempt to eat something that definitely is not food) that Linhardt is all but certain he's imagined it.

But the ambiguity, like most ambiguities, has started to itch at his nerves in the most uncomfortable and confusing way. 

He turns languidly back onto his side, beset with a new determination to sort out this new mess of questions. Caspar, for his part, remains undisturbed. Through the sweat-dampened muslin Linhardt can see the faint pink shadow of his nipples, peaked by stimulation from his shirt brushing against them as he moves. Ever unable to stop his mind from wandering, Linhardt wonders what it would be like to get his mouth on them, how his friend would react if he licked and teased and nipped at them the way his thoughts now seem to demand. If the sounds he made would be closer to the labored, breathless pants he’s making now, or a louder, more familiar sound. Or maybe there was a third option, a sound he just hasn't discovered yet. Over the years he's known Caspar, it doesn't seem likely. And yet, the possibility is undeniably enticing. 

This is how he finds himself here, teetering on the precipice of a decision. It’s a place he ordinarily tries to avoid if he can possibly help it. But that troubling whisper reminding him of the war has been getting louder of late, more invasive and unsettling, and more difficult to ignore. The laws of probability seem to be clattering for his attention now, reminding him brutally of their supremacy. And for a single, wild moment, Linhardt feels willing to do anything in his power to quiet them down. 

“Caspar,” he intones suddenly, before he can give himself more time to think about it. He has his serious voice on, but not the one that’s so serious that it makes his friend worry. Caspar hums a small acknowledgment that a conversation has been initiated, and continues without missing a beat, concentration unbroken. 

Linhardt pauses a moment, taking in the sound of his concentrated breathing and the rhythmic sound of his punches against the training dummy. It is soothing in a way, the constancy and the consistency of it. If he could just stay here listening to it, maybe in a timeloop, Linhardt thinks he could be happy. Happy to live without having to worry about the threat of the morning and all its attendant dangers, if that's what it takes. But he remembers he had a purpose to attend to, so he presses on. 

“Caspar,” he repeats, sitting up to lean back onto his elbows. "Would you mind terribly if I tried sucking you off right now?”

Linhardt watches it all happen. Caspar’s brain stutters to a halt, but his limbs, unfortunately, do not, and he crashes forward, collapsing heavily against his makeshift opponent. When he turns back to look at him, his cheeks are an awfully fetching shade of red. Linhardt tries to remember if he's seen that precise hue before. Probably he has, and yet. Not like this, he's sure of it.

"Wh-what did you just ask me?" Caspar attempts, searching his face as if for the clue to some kind of joke. Linhardt makes sure he finds none. 

"If I tried sucking you off," he repeats, patiently. A small smile creeps into his voice, but his face remains serious. His hands, meanwhile, feel fidgety, and he picks absently at a pebble on the floor. "Would you mind it?"

"Would I mind it," Caspar echoes, and it comes out not so much as a scoff but as a labored breath of disbelief. Linhardt supposes that that's a reasonable reaction. His face is still red, and he's staring at the floor in the way he does when he's hopelessly confused but trying his best to understand. But when he looks up and meets Linhardt's gaze, his eyes are intent. "Are you serious?"

Linhardt's eyebrows rise, and he realizes he hadn't been expecting that kind of reaction. In retrospect he isn't exactly sure what kind of reaction he was expecting. That uncertainty itself is a large part of what's been making him feel so on edge lately, why they’re even having this conversation in the first place. Like a puzzle box, he wants to poke and prod at it until that satisfying moment when the pieces all slide into place and fall open into his palms. He straightens out his face and nods solemnly. "When have I ever not been serious?" he asks calmly. 

"That's true…" Caspar concedes, though the storm clouds on his face don't clear. "It's just…" he continues, struggling to maintain eye contact. His tongue darts out to moisten his lips, and Linhardt zeros in on the motion, riveted. "This is just? Pretty sudden?" he observes, hesitant as though afraid Linhardt might reject his version of the truth. Comical, really, when objectively, he can't. 

Linhardt hums, and places his hand on his chin. "It is," he agrees finally, "but I have a theory I've been wanting to test for a while now."

"A theory," Caspar echoes, face looking none the brighter for this explanation. It's admittedly one he's heard a fair number of times over the years, usually along with a request to help Linhardt indulge in some outlandish and fleeting curiosity. More often than not, such excursions ended in Caspar carrying a sleeping Linhardt on piggyback all the way home and depositing him in his bed. Admittedly, it was never a fair arrangement for him from the beginning, but somehow, he always agreed anyway. This could be why Linhardt thinks he might just hear the slightest bit of disappointment in his voice. Somewhat contrarily, it gives him all the encouragement he needs to move forward. 

"Yes," he confirms, trying to keep his voice even though his heart feels nearly ready to excuse itself from his chest. His throat feels dry and he can all but feel his own pulse when he swallows, but he presses on. "It's a theory about how much I might like it. Sucking your dick, that is." He picks at a loose thread on his sleeve, averting his gaze though he can hear Caspar sputtering in response. He can all but feel the heat radiating off of his face, and wonders how his own might look. He really should have planned this more ahead of time, but here he is. A creature moved by impulse almost as often as by the dull pleasure of inaction. "My observations suggest I might like it quite a bit, but you never know with these things until you try." 

He smiles wanly, looking up to Caspar for a response. His friend looks absolutely dumbfounded, which is fair, given the circumstances. But he's also making a face Linhardt isn't accustomed to seeing on him. There's a hunger and a determination, but it's a different sort of hunger and determination than the usual one. _ Fascinating, _he thinks, feeling a stirring of greed in the pit of his stomach. 

“C-can I kiss you? First?” Caspar asks after a moment, trying to feel out the undefined boundaries of Linhardt's proposition. His face has grown so red by this point he seems liable to burst. His voice sounds thin and fragile but more than anything, it sounds hopeful. Linhardt hums, a playful smile on his face.

“I suppose that would be acceptable,” he responds, a glimmer of mischief on his voice. But when Caspar looks up to meet his eyes, his expression is pouty, so he revises his approach. He exhales a softer, more gentle kind of sigh, and continues. "I would like that, Caspar. Please do.”

Relief spreads on Caspar’s face in an excited grin of disbelief. Linhardt feels a fist clench around his heart at the sight, a reaction he decides he’d better store in the back of his mind to unpack later. For now, he lifts himself up to his feet, and takes a cautious step towards his friend. Caspar's eyes widen, blush still burning on his cheeks, but he looks determined to stand his ground. He swallows as Linhardt approaches. The height difference between them has closed over the years, but Linhardt still has just the slightest advantage and he feels like he's towering over Caspar as he leans in ever so slightly. He places a hand on Caspar's shoulder, and notes his nervous flinch when he does. A pause. 

"We don't… have to do this if you don't want to," he reminds him, looking seriously into his eyes. Caspar takes a second to gather his thoughts before responding, an uncommon move for him. Linhardt is intrigued by the rarity of this event alone.

"Lin," he says finally, returning his gaze firmly, as though he's made his decision at last. His voice is creaky, and it peaks Linhardt's ears with curiosity. "You have no idea how long I've wanted this."

And that _ is _ a surprise, but one that calms Linhardt slightly; gives context to the last few however long it's been and makes him feel more grounded and more certain. His eyebrows rise and he smiles, letting out a quiet, "oh." Caspar returns his look with a terrified, but determined looking grin. "In that case," Linhardt continues, inclining his head further downwards towards Caspar's face. He lets his eyes flicker down to his mouth, then flutter back up to meet Caspar's. "I suppose you'd better get on with it," he finishes playfully.

Caspar opens his mouth in shock, then shuts it as he seems to realize--Linhardt has come this far for him, but the rest of the distance, he needs to close himself. And he really, really does--that is, Linhardt really, deeply needs him to. Needs him to show him that he's not just going along because he always does; needs to show him that he wants it, too. He squares his shoulders, lets out a determined puff of air, squeezes his eyes shut and pulls him in by the lapels of his jacket. Linhardt wants to laugh; it's so unbelievably Caspar, and the thought blooms warmly in his chest like one of those flowering teas Ferdinand is so fond of.

Their lips brush softly, and Linhardt surprises himself with a tiny gasp at the sweetness of it. But it's nothing compared to the sound Caspar makes, a wanton and unguarded whine, as he pulls him more insistently against him. Linhardt stumbles slightly as Caspar wraps his arms around his neck, and releases a fond giggle, bowing down and resting his own hands on Caspar's waist. Caspar shudders, open mouthed against Linhardt, who licks into him, pulling him closer as he deepens the kiss. He feels drunk with the feeling of Caspar's tongue against his, heady and saccharine, of his body pressed flush against his own. Of all the hours, all the days, all the years he's spent contemplating it, he'd never thought it could be like this; never thought that it could feel so easy to be kissing his best friend, to be drawing such open and wanting sounds from his throat. That it could feel so right, like there wasn't anything else on the planet that he was better suited to do. Like he could spend all his days and even more of his nights doing it and still never be satisfied, never be bored. 

It's silly, he realizes, to feel so surprised by it, when it's all so desperately Caspar he feels blinded by it. 

Emboldened, he starts to walk Caspar backwards, drinking in the gasp his friend releases as his back bumps against the wall. Linhardt pulls away briefly to make sure he's okay, but the sight that greets him makes him feel breathless and weak at the knees. Caspar looks flushed and delighted and wrecked all at once, his lips red and kiss-swollen. His tongue darts out to lick away some of the stray spit that's escaped from the corner of his mouth. He's breathing hard and looking back into his eyes with an earnestness so thick and so heavy that Linhardt thinks he might well and truly be crushed by it. Cautiously, he steps closer, closing the distance between them and crowding Caspar against the wall.

They kiss again, slower and deeper, both growing bolder and more comfortable with each passing second. Caspar is pulling at Linhardt, won't stop pulling him down towards himself, and if Linhardt were at all in his right mind he'd be tempted to make a joke about his height. But he's not, at least, he thinks he must not be, because every whimper he extracts from Caspar has him thinking that he wants to hear nothing else for the rest of his life. That is, until he hears the desperate and hungry moan he releases when Linhardt shifts his weight, inadvertently brushing his thigh against the front of Caspar's trousers. Caspar lets his head crash back against the wall, bucking his hips forward unconsciously in seek of further friction. Linhardt hums softly and keeps his leg in place while he works on tugging Caspar's undershirt free from the waistband of his pants. 

"Still okay?" he asks as he slips his fingers under the hem of his shirt, wrapping them lightly around his waist.

"Lin," Caspar laughs, though it comes out more like a hoarse little bark. "I'll tell you if I need you to stop but also please," he gasps, "don't ever stop.

Linhardt smiles at his resolve and grips his waist more firmly. He revels in the contact of skin against skin, noting as he moves to brush his palms up Caspar's abs that he is indeed quite warm--though whether it was due to his earlier training or present activities would require further observation. Further experimentation. He makes a mental note of it to come back to later. "Are you sure you don't want to move somewhere else first?" he asks quietly, noting with pleasure as the blush on his friend's face deepens. 

"I-it's late," Caspar prevaricates, averting his gaze once again, "a-and I don't want to run into anybody outside." 

Linhardt smiles and hums again in agreement. He lets his fingers drift further upwards, caressing Caspar's firm chest until reaching their target. He brushes both thumbs experimentally against Caspar's nipples, breathing in the broken sob he seems to release. He captures his lips in a messy, heated kiss as he pinches at them, rolling both between thumb and forefinger. Caspar's moaning into his mouth now and bucking against his thigh and Linhardt thinks it's the most wonderful thing he's ever seen or heard or felt. His blush has spread out from his face to his ears and down his neck, dipping under the collar of his shirt and Linhardt wants to see more, wants to get his hands all over it. He drops one hand down to grip at the small of Caspar's back, pulling him in against himself more tightly. He's rewarded with another loud moan, and then feels a hand push up against his chest, hesitantly, and then harder, squeezing at him insistently. 

Linhardt pulls away and gazes at him attentively, absentmindedly licking some of the spit from his own lips. "Too much?" he asks softly. He didn't intend it to be a whisper but it came out as one all the same. The hoarseness in his own voice surprises him. 

"No, I-" Caspar starts, brows knit tightly together in frustration, "or I mean kind of, I-I just mean… I don't think…" He lets out a sigh and wets his lips before trying again. "I don't think I'm gonna last too long if you keep going on like that," he confesses, half laughing, half shameful.

Linhardt feels another heavy wave of fondness roll over him, and he lets out a quiet, "oh." He eases up on his attentions to Caspar's chest, rubbing his hands up and down his sides in a way he hopes he finds comforting. "In that case," he ventures hesitantly, letting his hands drift down towards the buttons of his friend's breeches, "maybe I should get on with it?" He pops the first button open.

Caspar swallows, eyes wide. "Y-you don't have to," he says, and Linhardt giggles. How like Caspar to still worry over the reliability of his own perception at a time like this, despite all the evidence of Linhardt's rapturous enthusiasm.

"Caspar, I promise," he assures him. "I really, really want to."

Impossibly, Caspar manages to deepen his blush even further before letting out a drymouthed and sheepish, "okay." 

"Okay," Linhardt repeats with a grin and drops leisurely to his knees. He sets to work popping open the rest of his buttons. Above him, he can hear Caspar curse under his breath and let his head drop back against the wall. Linhardt smiles fondly, noting with some delight that Caspar is already quite hard, having leaked a small spot of moisture onto the front of his smallclothes. Linhardt licks his lips, feeling the swell of something inside of him at the sight--possibly pride, or perhaps something darker. "Caspar," he interjects suddenly, looking up at his friend through thick eyelashes. "Look at me, would you?"

Caspar makes a choked sound and indulges him, looking down and releasing a subdued hiss when Linhardt reaches out and rubs lightly at his erection. "Lin…" he breathes, an unspoken plea on his lips. Linhardt grips him more firmly through his smalls, reveling in the feeling of his erection thick and heavy against his palm. Caspar whines again, loudly, and Linhardt feels like he might just lose control. That it might just reduce him to a creature of greed, driven by his basest and most lurid instincts. 

Emboldened, he maintains eye contact as he licks a thick stripe up the hard length of him through the thin layer of fabric, breathing out another giggle at his friend's haggard gasp. He feels exhilarated at the feeling of him pressing against his mouth, heavy and insistent. All the more so at the knowledge that all of it is for him, because of him. Caspar looks absolutely wrecked above him, murmuring a train of soft, muddled praise as he brushes Linhardt's hair away from his face. He's blushing hotly and already gasping for breath, stunned by the lewdness of it all even without making skin to skin contact. 

"Lin…" he murmurs, his voice a broken fragile thing. 

"Hmm?" Linhardt hums mischievously against him in response. He laves his tongue over the material until it's good and moist, feeling bolder than he's ever known himself to feel before. Caspar lets out a sound that's somewhere between a deep laugh and a gasp of shock and lets his head thump back against the wall. But he continues to draw soft circles with his thumb behind Linhardt's ear, which Linhardt takes as a form of unspoken encouragement. Tentatively, he lets his fingers drift up to the waistband of Caspar's smalls, as if of their own volition. He pauses there for a second, offering one final moment of reprieve, one last chance to back away and act like none of it had ever happened. Caspar brushes his thumb against Linhardt's cheekbone in an uncharacteristically soft, but not uncharacteristically gentle gesture of tenderness, and Linhardt smiles. He reciprocates the gesture by brushing his own thumb against Caspar's sharply defined hipbone. His eyes are a question as his fingers hook ever so slightly under his waistband. Caspar nods, breathless, and rasps out a haggard, "please."

Linhardt grins and peels away the last layer of fabric, at last depriving his friend of his final line of defense. Caspar's dick bobs free, long and flushed and desperately hard, leaking slightly at the tip. Caspar hisses at the exposure, blushing and avoiding eye contact as though this weren't exactly what Linhardt has asked him for. Linhardt smiles and hums appreciatively at the sight. He brushes it softly, just with the edge of his knuckles, and drinks in Caspar's stuttering gasp, his desperate repeated murmur of "Lin…" Encouraged, he tentatively grips it in his hand, giving a soft stroke and placing a small kiss at the very tip.

Caspar seems about ready to chew a hole through his bottom lip, clearly holding back, possibly for the first time ever, the sounds that his throat is desperate to make. _ Well_, Linhardt thinks fondly to himself, _ that just won't do_. He laps softly at the tip where he just kissed, pressing his open lips gingerly against it before taking the entire head into his mouth and sucking softly, experimentally. Caspar lets out all of the breath it seems he's been holding in one mighty shout, letting his head crash back against the wall. 

"Oh fuck Lin, _ fuck_, you're so gorgeous, you're so good you're so--"

Linhard preens. He continues his ministrations, more determined now than he can ever remember being. Caspar whines above him as he takes him in deeper, hollowing his cheeks and sucking down as far as his throat will let him. He bobs his head, toying softly at the base with his fingers as he falls into a sloppy rhythm. Caspar is shaking, panting above him with every sensation, everything that he does, and Linhardt feels drunk with the feeling of his efforts so well rewarded. He feels his cheeks start to ache with the strain of sucking harder than he realized, nearly gags a bit when an accidental buck of Caspar's hips sends the head of his cock sailing towards the back of his throat, but strangely, he doesn't even mind. As much as it surprises even himself, he finds that he can accommodate this much messy discomfort if it means he can keep pulling those haggard, wanting sounds out of Caspar, those addictive gasps and those labored pants and those distracted adulations, all dedicated to him. 

He pulls off with a lewd pop, then renews his attack, licking a thick stripe along Caspar's cock from base to tip, savoring the shudder it earns him. He places another chaste kiss right at the tip before taking him in his mouth once more. He finds that playing with the head is most rewarding; he swirls his tongue indulgently around it before sucking hard and pressing his tongue against the slit with intention. He surprises himself with a moan of his own when he tastes, more than feels the beads of precum that gather there. Invigorated, he takes Caspar fully into his mouth again, dragging his lips firmly over as much of him as he can take and settling into a steadier, less forgiving rhythm. 

"Lin, Lin fuck, I--" Caspar breathes out hoarsely, hips stuttering against the grip of Linhardt's hands trying to keep him pressed against the wall. Linhardt hums mercilessly around him, delighting in the loud and broken sob it draws out. "Lin, I can't, you're too good, you're so good, fuck," Caspar rambles, hips bucking more erratically now. His hands, trying to find purchase somewhere other than Linhardt's hair, clench and unclench uselessly by his side, bracing him against the wall, against Linhardt's cheek, against the overwhelming sensation. "Please, please, please, I," he begs, and Linhardt feels his heart clench with more fondness than he knows what to do with. Of course, Caspar would be so open at a time like this, so vulnerable and exposed and so trusting and so good. 

Linhardt reaches out and softly cups his balls, rolling them gently in his palm, and that's it. Caspar comes with a shout into Linhardt's open mouth, and Linhardt strokes him through it tenderly. When his breathing settles, he licks at the head, lapping up the stray droplets until Caspar hisses at the sensitivity. Linhardt takes mercy at last and releases him, only just realizing how much he's exerted himself. He places his hands on his own knees to catch his breath and quell his own shaking. Caspar, for his part, has bowed down above him as if delivering a benediction. His hands grip firmly on his shoulders, and he's shaking, softly but surely. After a few moments of silence and trying to catch up with his own breath, his heart, his thoughts, Linhardt runs his hands up and down Caspar's thick, sturdy thighs, trying to pull him back down to earth and ground him back in the present. Now that the deed is done, and impossible to take back, he looks up with some hesitation. 

When he meets his eyes at last, they're welled up with emotion, and Linhardt suddenly wonders if he's done the wrong thing, if he made a mistake. If he should have left that line uncrossed after all. He swallows, and chances a hesitant smile, rubbing absently at the spit that's collected at the corners of his mouth with his thumb. He searches his friend's eyes for a sign that things can still be okay, that they'll still be okay. Instead, he sees Caspar follow his movements with his eyes, and swallow shallowly. _ Oh, _ Linhardt thinks, and brings his thumb to his mouth, licking at the tip of it experimentally. Caspar shudders, and he feels it course through him. 

Now that the attention has been turned more fully onto him, it feels sharp and hot, heady and intoxicating, and intensely, inescapably _ Caspar_. 

_ "Lin," _he breathes at last, voice thick with emotion as he crashes to his knees. He places his hands on both sides of Linhardt's face and pulls him in for a languid, heavy kiss. Linhardt gasps in both relief and something else as Caspar licks into his mouth, syrupy and insistent, as though chasing the taste of himself on his mouth. He shudders at the thought, in spite of all he's just done, as if the firm press of Caspar's chest against his, of his tongue in his mouth, of his hands on his back, somehow make it more real. Maybe it does. All he knows is that Caspar is pulling him forward into his lap now and he's powerless to resist. But for the first time in his life, possibly, the thought of resisting couldn't be farther from his mind. Though perhaps, now that he thinks on it, it has always been this way with Caspar. Caspar has always been the exception. He has always been the one, precious exception. 

He makes a small grunt as Caspar hooks his arms under Linhardt's thighs to switch their positions, now crowding him against the wall. Linhardt lets out a high pitched "--oh," as he feels him settle in between his thighs, feeling them splay around Caspar's waist. Suddenly, the ache that's been building there makes itself dreadfully apparent, even more so as Caspar places a hand hesitantly over his ass, a brief warning before giving a gentle, experimental squeeze. Linhardt hears a quiet gasp and is surprised to realize, staring into his best friend's eyes, that the high strung, desperate sounding sound had come from himself. Caspar grins in response and Linhardt pouts. He squirms and arches his back, feeling a hopelessly insufficient drag of friction against his erection. 

His teeth bury into his lower lip and his eyes flutter closed for a moment to ground himself before looking up again and meeting his friend's inquisitive gaze. Caspar nudges at his nose with his own, and Linhardt becomes distantly aware of his hand hovering above his groin, ghosting up to the buttons of his trousers and brushing against the soft skin of his stomach. When his shirt became untucked, Linhardt simply couldn't say, and he hisses with surprise at the contact. The pause that passes between them seems to last an eternity. 

"This okay?" Caspar breathes finally, softer than any sound Linhardt thinks he's ever heard him make. In spite of the softness and the earnestness in his gaze, Linhardt chokes out a small, hoarse giggle of surprise. How very, very Caspar of him.

"Caspar, you've already come in my mouth," he points out, nipping teasingly at his bottom lip, which has worried itself into an indignant pout. Caspar's eyebrows knit together in protest, his face bright red. He looks about ready to sputter an explanation in his own defense. Linhardt resists the urge to smooth his brow back down with his thumb, instead determined to interrupt him and bring him back to the matter at hand. "But yes," he continues, pitching his hips forward into Caspar's waiting palm, "please carry on."

Caspar grins, appeased, and captures his lips in a messy, enthusiastic kiss while his fingers set to work undoing the buttons of Linhardt's trousers. Linhardt sighs contentedly into the kiss, more than happy to lean back at last and let Caspar take over. And he does so quite admirably, gripping his back tightly with one hand and making quick work of all his buttons and stays with the other. At long last he pulls Linhardt's erection out and gives it a long stroke from base to tip. Linhardt tries his best to stifle a moan, letting his head loll back against the wall as he feels a hand wrap around him and begin to stroke rhythmically. As if moving on their own accord, his hips cant forward with an eagerness he supposes shouldn't surprise him, but somehow manages to nonetheless. 

"Shit, Lin…" he hears Caspar whisper as he feels him bury his face in the crook of his neck. "You're so fucking gorgeous, you're so fucking pretty like this." Linhardt gasps as he feels Caspar begin to kiss and bite softly at the junction of his neck and his shoulder, and he bucks helplessly into his friend's fist at the sensation. He chews desperately at his bottom lip trying to suppress another moan, but with each second that passes, with each of Caspar's dedicated attentions, he finds his defenses growing thinner, feels each sensation blooming closer to the surface and threatening to burst through. 

"Caspar… Caspar please," he pants, not knowing what he's asking for. Luckily for him, Caspar is merciful, and doesn't press him on the matter. Only keeps drawing soft pants out of him, every stroke of this hand bringing him a little bit closer to the edge. 

"Wanna see more of you," Caspar continues, "wanna see all of you, please, Linhardt, please." He bites down harder on his neck, in the shadow of his jawline just below his ear, and the part of Linhardt that's still able to feel shame wants to chide him for choosing such a visible place to mark him. But the rest of him groans pitifully into the sensation, rolling his hips a little more insistently as Caspar does his best to worry a delicious, unforgiving bruise onto that spot. 

He isn't ready for this part--the part where Caspar's strong arms and broad shoulders pin him in place and he feels himself at a total loss for control. It's sweet and it's intoxicating, and Linhardt is sure that under the right circumstances he could become a perfect addict. He wants to feel more; wants to feel those strong arms and stronger thighs press him into his mattress while Caspar kisses him breathless and ruts their hips together. He wants to feel calloused hands running over him, pressing marks into his thighs while Caspar pulls them firmly but carefully apart. He wants to feel his friend inside of him, to feel full to bursting until he's gasping for more. He wants to fuck Caspar too, wants to know what it’s like to bend over him and pin his wrists to the bed and press into him until he’s a begging, sobbing mess. But more than anything he wants time--time to do it all at their leisure, on their own time, together. He wants and he wants, and feels helpless with want.

Caspar pulls him back into the present with a twist of his wrist and with that he is coming with a quiet gasp, spilling over Caspar's hand, his undershirt, and the front of his own waistcoat. Caspar strokes him through it, and Linhardt realizes dimly that his other hand is petting kind, caring circles at the small of his back. He's shaking now and he buries his face in Caspar's shoulder as he tries to steady his breath.

"Are you okay?" Caspar asks softly after a moment, pulling back to look Linhardt in the eye. "You seemed kinda… far away for a minute there." His face is all concern as he takes Linhardt’s cheeks between his hands, looking into his eyes, searching. Urging him, pleading with him, begging him not to him look away. Linhardt feels his eyes well up with an amount of emotion that is frankly overwhelming. Caspar panics. “Was it too much? Lin, I’m so sorry, I shouldn’t have—” he babbles, face red with distress, eyes threatening to overflow with tears.

In spite of his own heavy thoughts, Linhardt laughs softly and inclines his head forward, breathing a quiet "Caspar." He closes his eyes and swallows shallowly, resting his forehead against his friend. His best friend, his oldest friend. His kindest, truest, and most constant friend. His friend who knows no self restraint, and yet seems to be holding his breath right now, in this moment, waiting for Linhardt to speak. As if he, too, is Caspar's precious exception. The thought sparks a feeling in his chest that blossoms outwards, threatening to crowd out all the others. He wishes that it would. He'd do anything if it could. He opens his eyes and looks into Caspar's before releasing it into the wild, at last. "I love you."

For one horrible, horrifying moment, Caspar looks at him in shock. But then, because he is Caspar, he pivots entirely and meets him with a grin more brilliant and beautiful than the sun. His Caspar. _His Caspar._ "Lin, fuck, I--I love you so much, Lin, more than anything." 

Linhardt smiles, allowing Caspar to pull him in softly, kissing him sweetly and tenderly and so, so delicately, as though afraid of crushing him like a nest of spun sugar. It doesn't quiet the beating war drums of his worries and his desires, not entirely. But it adds a softness around their edges, a bright and a syrupy haze and a warmth in a place where it once used to clang and clatter sharply in the darkness and the cold. If all he must do is keep moving towards that warmth, he thinks, perhaps he can find a way to make peace with the passage of time after all. 

They pull away eventually, though how long it's been Linhardt really couldn't say. Burying his face in the crook of Caspar's neck, he succumbs to the urge to yawn at last. In his mind, it's been frankly heroic of him to have held out this long, but he expects, and receives, a familiar snort of laughter from Caspar in response. And that, more than anything, warms him--makes him feel like everything between them is just the same as it's always been, just with a little more. So he snuggles more insistently against his friend, and mumbles something indistinct. Indistinct to himself, and he thinks, probably, to the rest of the world. But strangely, miraculously, Caspar understands, as he always does.

"Okay, fine," he responds, his voice tinged with fondness and laughter, like a crackling fire. (His Caspar, his heart repeats. His Caspar, his Caspar.) "I'll carry you back. But you have to make yourself decent, first."

Linhardt has never moved faster; he tucks himself perfunctorily back into his trousers and loops his arms back around his neck, eyes already closed. He waits there for a minute, the perfect picture of patience, as Caspar shifts around with his own clothes. Then he feels himself being lifted effortlessly by strong arms that keep him steady, keep him safe. He's asleep before they cross the threshold of the training grounds and step out into the cold.

If Linhardt is alone when he wakes up it's next to a mountain of sweet buns left by his head like a promise. He isn't sure what time it is, but in his heart, it feels like dawn.

**Author's Note:**

> there's also a folded up letter from hubert slipped under his door informing him of a need to discuss some "indiscretions," which linhardt deposits directly into the trashcan.
> 
> come say hi or yell at me @lilytheas idk


End file.
